"He's a pretty good old sport after all, isn't he, Nan?" her husband suggested.
"I'll tell the world he is," she answered archly, employing the A.E.F. slang she had already learned from Donald. She linked her arm in old Hector's and steered him down the hall to the living-room. "Your grandson is in there," she said, and opening the door she gently propelled him into the room.
XLVII
Nan was right. His grandson was there, but strange to relate he was seated, as naked as Venus (save for a diaper) on his grandmother's lap.
Hector McKaye paused and glared at his wife.
"Damn it, Nellie," he roared, "what the devil do you mean by this?"
"I'm tired of being an old fool, Hector," she replied meekly, and held the baby up for his inspection.
"It's time you were," he growled. "Come here, you young rascal till I heft you. By the gods of war, he's a McKaye!" He hugged the squirming youngster to his heart and continued to glare at his wife as if she were a hardened criminal. "Why didn't you tell me you felt yourself slipping?" he demanded. "Out with it, Nellie."